


Spring Fever

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Fluff, Hobbitpile, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets an eyeful, and so does Frodo. But worse than that - breakfast is disrupted!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Wriiten for danachan's Hobbitpile Week in 2005. It's a touch silly :)

It was such a lovely Spring day that Sam rather regretted that he couldn't work outside. But however sweetly the thrush sang in the hedge and the scent of cherry blossom wound delicately round his nose, the fact remained that precisely because it was Spring, it was past time to finish the work he'd started.

With a tiny regretful sigh, Sam turned from the enticement of the garden and made to return through the kitchen door, when he heard a sudden bump. Then he heard a thumping sound, followed by a muffled curse.

What the dickens was that? Was Mr Frodo in trouble? Had he tried to make his own tea, like on the one memorable occasion that had Sam wincing in recollection and his hands itching to take anything hot and boiling away from Mr Frodo's grasp _at once_, and no messing about this time. Or perhaps it was Mr Pippin? He'd been known to have trouble with a frying pan occasionally, although he was a mite more handy than Mr Frodo, Sam still found his palms sweating at the memory of the free and easy way that Mr Pippin had with hot bacon fat… Or could it be Mr Merry? Sam still had nightmares when he remembered what Mr Merry had tried to hide in the laundry basket that one time – and that trick would have been worse to get out than beetroot stain, and no mistake.

Still, who was he to argue? They were Quality, and he wasn't. He was employed by Mr Frodo, and everyone knew the Quality had odd ways, stands to reason, and who was he to judge? Cabbages were cabbages, and potatoes were potatoes, and it were as simple as that.

There was another slight thumping noise, and Sam recalled a sense of where he was, and his worries redoubled in a wave of anxiety.

"Comin', Mr Frodo!" he called, his mind filled with visions of his best copper kettle slipping from careless hands.

He dashed in through the kitchen door and stopped short, his breath whistling from his mouth in a sudden gasp of shock. Then, unable to stop himself staring, Sam slowly blushed bright red, right up to the tips of his ears. Well, the Quality had odd ways to be sure. It wasn't for him to concern himself with what was by no means his business. But really! In his nice clean kitchen, of all places! Was that Mr Pippin's arse in the air, or was that Mr Merry's? And did Mr Frodo really need butter on the kitchen floor at this time in the morning? And what were they doing with the bread rolls?

It came to Sam that he shouldn't really be here. And he certainly shouldn't be watching. Such going's on were not for a simple hobbit such as himself to understand. He was a simple meat and two veg lad, and since he couldn't even work out who was the meat and who was the veg… No, suddenly tending the gooseberry patch had a certain amount of appeal. Spring air, sunshine, and it was at the very furthest end of the garden. Really, it needed weeding rather urgently…

***

Back in the kitchen, there were some more bumping noises, and then the unmistakable sound of more swearing.

"Hoy, Pip – if that's your elbow in my eye, I'd be better pleased if you'd remove it."

"It's not my fault, Frodo. You've been enjoying Sam's cooking for far too long, in my opinion – you're heavy!"

Shoving his cousin back and rolling off him, Frodo heard a slight crunching sound, and with a rather surprised look, reached and pulled out a rather crushed bread roll.

Then he cast an exasperated glance at his two best friends who were still a random collection of arms and legs, asprawl in the middle of his kitchen.

"Merry? For goodness sake, pull your nightgown down at once! What _would_ the neighbours say?"

Spluttering, Merry emerged from the heap and then exclaimed, "Oh! My hand fell in the butter – I'm all greasy."

"Well, if you will pull the tablecloth down on top of us all, then what do you expect?" Frodo's patience had worn butter thin, rather like his temper.

"Look, I was falling, Frodo, I grabbed whatever came to hand – it's not like it's the end of the world."

"No, but it rather seems to be the end of breakfast. So much for finding out who the last one to sit down would have been!"

"Well, I still say it would have been Pippin - he's the slowest."

"Hey! Just because I'm smallest, doesn't make me slow, I'll have you know."

Pippin appeared from under the tablecloth, dishevelled but unhurt.

"No, but it does mean we can sit on you!" Merry grinned at the somewhat rumpled apparition.

"You proved that rather successfully just now, thank you very much!" grumbled Pippin, brushing crumbs out of his hair.

"But why did we fall?" asked Merry suddenly, his humour returning, now it seemed that no-one was much injured.

From sitting fuming on his kitchen floor, Frodo's brow cleared a little, as he looked around, and then he laughed.

"Sam!" he exclaimed.

"Where?" Merry asked, starting and looking over his shoulder.

From beneath his creased nightgown, Frodo groped and emerged victorious, clutching his prize.

"I'm going to have words with that lad, trying to kill us all – and before breakfast too."

It was a bar of large and crumbly yellow soap.

"Spring cleaning!" announced Frodo, triumphantly.


End file.
